Enemy Love Soulmate
by witch-annie
Summary: Eleven days, twelve hours and fortyfive minutes ago Harry Potter realized he was in love. In love with some wrong. But both are drawn one to another. In secrecy, they meet... Slash. HarryDraco


1. ENEMY

_n. One who feels hatred towards, intends injury to, or opposes the interests of another_

The boy – young man, really – has no idea why this is happening. Has no idea when Hogwarts turned from boring lessons and jokes with friends to hurried kisses and sneaking about after curfew. Does not know when, why, how... When exactly Draco Malfoy took hold of his mind. Why he cannot live, even one day, without being with said Draco Malfoy. How he, Harry Potter, fell in love with his enemy.

But, are they really enemies? Enemy... Such a difficult word to define. He asks himself – are they enemies? He does not know. And anyhow, does it really matter? No.

For the tenth times he sneaks out of the dormitory. He does not know why he goes, he just does, as if something, a magnet, keeps pulling him to the other side of the castle, to the bedroom in the dungeons, into the shrouded bed which smells of lavender and lemon and herbs. To the bedroom which is a world separate from this, where animosity and snide remarks and rivalry do not exist, where there are no problems and evil and darkness. It is a world where there only two people exist – Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the hero of the wizarding world and the Ice Prince of Slytherin.

The corridor is dark and long and quiet, and he knows everyone is asleep. Almost automatically, his feet take him down a flight of stairs, through an arch, down more stairs, a corridor, a door, more stairs... And now he stands before a wooden door, which is unmarked and somewhat faceless. He knocks. Three times, as it had been agreed eleven days ago.

Eleven days, twelve hours and forty-five minutes ago Harry Potter realized he was in love.

His enemy (let's call him that, even though Harry himself cannot decide on the matter) opens the door. He's a head taller than Harry, with startlingly beautiful silver eyes and platinum hair and perfect lips. A face that is as cold as ice and as beautiful as the stars. Elegant, pale hands rest on his hips, with aristocratically long fingers.

His enemy is proud and vain and arrogant, haughty and sarcastic and mean. But not here and not now. Here, he is not the aristocratic Malfoy, not the son of a convicted Deatheater. He is Draco here. A young man who can feel, and who is caring and a just little vulnerable. Here, he sheds the facade of coldness and cruelness, and lets Harry, and Harry alone, see his true self. The Draco. Not the Malfoy.

LOVE

_n. A strong positive emotion of regard and affection_

The room is warm and comfortable. Thick velvet curtains, soundproofed walls and windows; everything to separate them from the other, cruel and evil world. A four-poster bed with simple curtains of pale green, a thick carpet on the floor, which mutes their footsteps. The pale golden light of the single pillar candle on the bedside table.

The door closes with a quiet click and they are alone. And wonderfully, miraculously, magically, they forget. Forget about everything, leave everything out there, where it all belongs. The brunet sighs and he not alert and anxious anymore, but weary and vulnerable and...needy.

The mask of the confident, all-powerful hero is gone and he is not a hero at all, but an exhausted, tortured and confused boy with eyes that are too wise and a heart that is too heavy for his age. Draco sees that, sees and understands how lucky he is to see the Boy-Who-Lived as just a boy. He doubts anyone else has that privilege.

Silently, for they do not need words, he takes those three steps separating them and they are inches apart. Harry does not look at him, but stares intently at the window, refusing to look into that angelic face, those hypnotic silver eyes.

The truth is that Harry loves Draco. Too much. Too fiercely. That is why he comes here, and nothing can stop him, and he never regrets his coming. He loves Draco, even though 'love' may not be the most suitable word. He needs Draco. Needs the simple comfort of a person who asks nothing in return, who expects nothing from him, wants nothing. Needs the care and wordless understanding.

He needs Draco. And he cannot but wonder – is that not love?

SOUL MATE (S)

_n. One of two persons compatible with each other in disposition, point of view, or sensitivity _

Draco takes Harry's chin and makes him look up, into his eyes. Harry's face is innocent, and yet lined with worry and anxiety that is so deep in his soul that even here it cannot leave him. He bends and presses his lips to Harry's. The kiss is soft and gentle and sweet, honey and caramel and chocolate, warm champagne and red wine. They lose themselves in it, perfectly and utterly, and for some time there are only soft lips and dancing tongues and suppressed moans.

Harry's head is spinning when they move apart, and both are panting and gulping down much-needed air. Kiss-swollen lips and shining eyes, and all the tiredness (no, exhaustion) is forgotten and is replaced by need (no, desire). Draco picks Harry up and places him on the bed, gently and tenderly, as if the shorter boy is a fragile glass figurine.

Then he kisses him again, and Harry lets Draco manoeuvre himself between Harry's legs and soon neither knows whose legs and whose arms are where. Neither care.

They make love for hours, and the room (how lucky they are that seventh-years have private bedrooms) is sanctified by feathery caresses and forceful kisses and hands that trace thighs and backs and legs and faces. They lose themselves one in another. Totally. Completely. Each understands the other's needs instantaneously, and no words are needed, only a barely noticeable movement of a finger or a gentle caress.

Harry often thinks they are soul mates. What else could they be? What else, but that they are soul mates, could this magnetic attraction, this wordless understanding, this mutual yearning and the tenderness which either had ever shown to anyone else mean?

CHANGE

_to make different in some particular, to make radically different_

Draco watches Harry sleep, holds him as the Gryffindor loses himself in mercifully dreamless slumber. He does not know this, but only here, in this bed, in Draco's arms, Harry sleeps calmly. He does not toss and turn and scream as when his usual nightmares plague his mind. He'd seen too much during the war, this Draco does know, he's been through too much and done too much. The dreams of all of this, of everyone Harry has lost, plague the brunet.

But not here. In this refuge, this sanctuary, this shrine of peace and tranquility and love and passion, he sleeps calmly as Draco holds him.

Draco does not sleep. These nights are too precious to sleep through them, so he just holds Harry and watches him. He thinks (and an almost Slytherin-y, bitter smile curves his lips, although they are neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor here) that it's so ironic that he, Draco Malfoy, of all people, is here with Harry.

For years he'd truly and honestly hated Harry. With all his heart and soul. With every fibre of his being. When had it all changed? What had changed in the beginning of this, last, year at Hogwarts? Sure, Harry had returned as the saviour of the wizarding world, and he had come to school, last September, more beautiful than ever. But that was not what made Draco love him.

Harry has changed. The war, the loss of so many has wounded him. And these are not wounds that can be healed by salves or spells. These are infinitely deep wounds, wounds of the heart and soul. Sirius, Dumbledore, then Lupin, Arthur Weasley, Hermione Granger – all these deaths hurt Harry in a way that was irreversible. Yes, Draco knows exactly how badly Harry has been affected by these losses – Harry had spoken long into the night a few days ago, and told Draco everything. He'd poured his heart and soul out, told Draco of his innermost feelings.

Why? Because, Draco knows, Harry has no-one else. Ronald Weasley has pain enough of his own. It isn't as if Harry is going to go to McGonnagal... And who else is there? No-one.

Harry has changed. The war has changed him. He is quieter. Darker. He is no longer the vivacious boy Draco enjoyed hurting, years ago. He has endured more than anyone. His soul is in tatters. The world crafted carefully of bright hopes and joyful dreams has collapsed like a card-house and Harry is left with the shards of all that.

No, Draco does not pity Harry. He feels drawn to the deep mystery of the broken hero, the dark, deep psyche that he wants to delve into. He wants to help Harry. To bring him back. And he knows only he holds the power to do that – because he is what Harry has left, even if he is (was?) an enemy.

HOME

_n. A place where one lives. _

Harry opens his eyes and smiles, feeling the arms wrapped around him, the warmth of the body pressed against his, the sheer calm he feels in this room. Yes, he decides, he is in love with Draco Malfoy.

And he gives up trying to comprehend it all – to comprehend _them_. After all, maybe they are not supposed to be understood? Maybe their relationship is too complex, to difficult and too goddamn precious to be put into words?

Their eyes lock, silver and emerald, and for a moment Harry sees all of Draco before him. Not just the calm, loving Draco he knows here, but the masked Draco he has to endure out there, in the real world (although who says this isn't real?). Both of them make Draco Malfoy up. And Harry finds he loves and accepts both sides of Draco Malfoy, no matter what.

Draco sees all of Harry before him. Not just the calm, loving Harry he knows here, but the masked Harry he sees out there, in the real world. The leader Harry, the strong Harry, the saviour Harry. Both fo them make Harry Potter up. And Draco finds he loves and accepts both sides of Harry Potter.

The morning is a blur of kisses and touches and muttered promises. And only too soon Harry has to leave this place, this room which has long become his home. What is home? Is it not the place where one feels loved and safe and whole? If it is, it is this place. This place of quiet love and wordless understanding.

He gets dressed and no matter how much he wants to stay, he knows that soon everyone will be up and that he has to leave. He opens the door and only then turns to Draco, who is sitting on the bed, eyes full of infinite sadness and unspoken love.

This room is their home. The palace where they are. Just are. Simply and perhaps wrongly and inexplicably, but nevertheless, they exist. And that is all that matters.

'Will you come again?' Draco asks.

Harry does not answer. He does not need to. Both knows he will keep coming, again and again, and nothing will change it...


End file.
